In progress paintings started on Sunday March 2, 2014. Mine is on the left, my art partner, Nick, is on the right. This was my first time painting on canvas in probably six years, it’s officially the largest I’ve ever painted so I’ll never be able to go back to anything considerably smaller. The question of where to put it when it’s finished remains to be answered.
My day has ended, it’s well after sunset, and I’m heading for my car in a parking lot that I’ve never dreamt about before*. A feeling surfaces that I’ve been expecting something to be left for me on the windshield of my vehicle. As I approach, there’s something there, and I already have a feeling that you were the one who left it.
It’s a painting on canvas. Sort of. More of a compilation of an image confined to a square, with text: a title or phrase, some vague, sweeping statement about how I broke your heart, how all women are inherently evil, to you (It looks like one of the t-shirt designs you wore in the images that you published for less than a day [and then they were gone]).
I remove the painting from my windshield and set it on top of a closed garbage dumpster, for the next person to retrieve it. The street lamp above the dumpster is the only source of light, and now the painting seems gigantic. It has grown from 3′x4′, to a massive 6′x7′ in size (maybe it’s actually 8′x10′!). I decide to keep it, and it somehow fits into the back seat of my modest four door.
It’s starting to rain anyway.
I find myself inside a building, briefly, and am walking through doors to an outdoor terrace. It’s still nighttime, but it’s not raining here. I call out a “hello?”, and at the same time I see a person through the dark, sitting in a patio chair to my distant left. I didn’t expect anyone to be here, but it’s you, and I can’t pretend like I didn’t say anything. So I adjust my trajectory and walk to you. I say hello again, friendlier. Less like looking for the unknown in the dark.
You’re closer in every dream, this is the closest yet, and you still have your dyed black hair.
You quietly say hello back, with a hint of a smile. Barely.
I don’t remember what we talked about on the terrace in the dream, but it seemed friendly, accepting. We leave the terrace and go inside, where something social is happening. A projected movie. There’s a lot of bright, indoor lighting in a twenty-something’s homey space, and people are moving around, not paying attention to us.
The details of our exchange gets foggy, but I know we spent time just being. Sitting on the floor, while the movie plays on the wall in front of us.
Close. Relaxed. Arms and fingers touching by accident in conversation, igniting fuzzy feelings. Talking about who knows what, if anything at all.
What I do remember, is hugging you at the end of the dream. Telling you, in your ear, how much I enjoyed your company, wishing we could go back and hang out and do it over again. But it’s impossible because I still remember your meanest, harshest words: shot at me from behind a computer screen as fervently as when you had confessed your deepest, warmest feelings the same way. Hiding behind a screen. With no apology.
But, good news. So, don’t worry. I never go back to anyone anyway.